The Yoke and the Cross

At the end of Matthew 11, we hear what is perhaps the most personal of Jesus’ metaphors recorded in Scripture – my yoke is easy, my burden is light.

In his day, as it is today in much of the less-developed, agricultural societies, a yoke, whether a single yoke that a person may use to carry a heavy load, or a double yoke that may have joined a team of oxen to plow a field, would have been made of wood, the work of a carpenter.  And if the carpenter was particularly skilled and had custom-fit that yoke precisely to the person or team which was to use it, it would ride easy on their shoulders, it would make their burden light.  Presumably, St. Joseph and Jesus would have made many an easy yoke in the carpentry shop of Nazareth.  It could not have been more natural –and perhaps more personally pleasing to him – for Jesus to use this as a metaphor for the peace he would bring to those who accepted him and his love.

Yet this pleasing prospect – certainly good, even great, news – seems contradicted by a more well-known metaphor.  Throughout his ministry, Jesus insists that we must shoulder not an easy yoke, but a heavy cross, following him to Calvary.   Does the heavy cross also make our burdens light?  How can we reconcile these seemingly contradictory images?

Just over two years ago, we could not have imagined how urgent this question would be for us in Newtown.  This weekend, we will face this conundrum head on. 

We will gather at Mass to remember and to mourn for the great loss we suffered, a hole carved out of our hearts that will never be filled.  We will remember the pain and grief we endured, a pain that still throbs within us to this very day.  

But at the same time, we light the pink candle in our Advent wreath and don the pink vestments, recalling St. Paul’s admonition to rejoice always, for Christ’s coming into the world shows us that Jesus’ yoke is not made of wood, but made of the unconditional, eternal, infinite love of God.  God so loved the world, he gave his only Son. 

When we accept in our hearts that we are loved despite our sins, despite our failings, and despite our weakness; when we wholly enter into relationship with Jesus, who is this very love incarnate, we are filled with profound joy. 

It is a joy which cannot be engendered by a beribboned Lexus, a joy more lasting than the most perfectly-cut diamond, and a joy which the festive tree and its trimmings can only begin to hint at.  In turn, this joy leads to a profound peace, a peace which cannot be won by any army, secured by any treaty, or guaranteed by any constitution.  

This joy and peace becomes a great light within us – the light of Christ’s love which the darkness cannot overcome.  It is a yoke that makes the heaviest cross bearable.

This weekend, we will gather to not only remember our loss, our pain and our grief, but also to recall the thousands of people who mourned with us that weekend and in the months to come; the millions of prayers offered in our support; the countless gifts of consolation showered on us from around the world.   Each person, each prayer, each consolation reminds us to this day of God’s great and powerful love, the love which we chose to be our shield, our light, and our yoke.

It is Jesus’ yoke, and he guarantees us that no matter how heavy the cross, his yoke is easy, his burden light.

We believe.  We choose love.

Fear Not

Fear is a terrible thing.  Of course, it is.  Terrible things, by definition, are those things which terrorize us, which cause us to fear.  One of our greatest fears is fear of loss – the loss of people or possessions we hold dear, the loss of respect and honor, the loss of our life, the loss of love.

In our fear of loss, we desperately cling to what we wish to keep.  We zealously protect it and guard it, lest it be taken away from us.  We anxiously seek more and more, always fearing that some loss is unavoidable.

Our fears make sense in a finite world, where gains and losses are commonplace, where one person’s gain may be another person’s loss, where value is equated with price, where more is always better and less is always worse.

This is the world in which the unfortunate third servant lived. (Lk 19:11-28)  He so feared the loss of his master’s coin – and the subsequent loss of prestige that this would entail – that he could not see his true purpose.

This, also quite unfortunately, is the world in which I often live.  When I assume that my value lies only in that which can be counted, that which can be banked, that which can be summarized on a balance sheet or a list of Facebook friends, I have utterly lost any sense of true purpose, any sense of what I am intended for.

For I, like you, have been created by God and have been created for God.  I have not been created to dwell in the finiteness of this world, but in the divinity, the grace, the eternity, the faithfulness, and the infinity of God.  For this purpose, God has gifted me – as he has gifted you – with infinite and unconditional love.  It is infinite; it cannot be counted.  It is unconditional; it cannot be lost. 

And all that God asks of me – God’s purpose for me – is to give His love away in the same fashion as it was given to me.  For it is giving it away, that I become more aware of its presence.  It is in giving it away, that I live in the economy of grace, where giving multiplies that which is given, where fear of loss is banished and the gratitude of what has been given is plenteous, where more is unnecessary since what has been given – God’s love – is always enough.

Next Thursday, we have set aside a special day to give thanks to God for his great and bountiful gift of love, his gift of life.  Do not fear.  It cannot be lost.  It is enough.  We need nothing more.

A Gilded Heart

When the Romans destroyed the Temple in 70 A.D, they expected the Jewish religion to just fade away, but they failed to reckon with the faithfulness of God to his people.  Today, we celebrate the dedication of St. John Lateran, the mother church of our faith, the episcopal seat of the Bishop of Rome.  It is our only archbasilica!  Yet, if some disaster destroyed St. John Lateran, would anyone think the Catholic faith would crumble?

But it made sense for the Romans to think as they did, for it is almost impossible for us to comprehend how important and vital the temple was to the Jewish people of Jesus’ time.

It was the heart and soul of the faith.  It housed the holiest of holies, the Ark of the Covenant, and was where Yahweh chose to dwell with his people.  It was the only place where a Jew could offer sacrifice to Yahweh and properly atone for his sins.  Tens of thousands of Jews descended on Jerusalem on each of the major feast days to worship and sacrifice at the temple.

Ezekiel, writing during the Babylonian exile with Solomon’s temple destroyed, envisions the new temple with streams flowing from it, making the salt water fresh, and giving life to all creatures. (Ez 47:1-12) The vision evokes for us the streams flowing from the Garden of Eden.  (Gn 2:10-14) The temple, in Ezekiel’s vision restores the peace and original justice of the Garden itself.

With Herod’s extensive renovations, the temple in Jesus’ day had surpassed the magnificence of Solomon’s original.  Outside of Rome, it was perhaps the most impressive and imposing building in the Mediterranean world.  Thus, it was also a point of pride for the Jewish people, who were, at best, only bit players on the world stage.

The Jewish prophets often proclaimed the Messiah would restore and perfect the purity of the Temple.   Jesus’ prophetic cleansing of the Temple that we read about this morning (Jn 2:13-22), echoing Jeremiah’s denunciations of the desecration of the Temple in his day, would have addressed this particular mission.  But Jesus knows that the Jerusalem Temple, as all things on earth, could not last.  It was just stones on stones that, one day, would crumble.  Rather, the temple on which his followers will depend is the temple of his body, which even death itself cannot destroy, which he gives to us anew at each and every celebration of the Mass.

St. Paul extends this metaphor to make us aware that, by virtue of our baptisms, God dwells in each of us, and each of our own bodies is now a temple of the Holy Spirit.  Considering my own meager body, that’s a pretty staggering thought!

How can this poor body of mine possibly house the glory of God?  How can I hold this temple of the Holy Spirit – and the temples of all those around me – with the same reverence and awe as the Jewish people had for the temple in Jerusalem.  What can or should I do to make my body and my life holy enough to justify such an honor?  Well, that’s a really long, long talk.  It’s our call to holiness – be perfect as your heavenly father is perfect.  Spiritual masters have written thousands of books, billions of words, on this pursuit of holiness. 

But this time of year, I think of one insight that many of these masters have in common.  One wise man said it like this, “God dwells in two places – in heaven and in a grateful heart.”

Do I see everything about me as gift, the fruits of God’s unconditional and infinite love?  Do I live always in a world of gift? 

Or do I jealously cling to all those things I claim as “mine,” the well-earned fruits of my hard work, my pious acts, or even my goodness?

St. Ignatius understood that we all find ourselves in this trap.  He saw that gratitude was an important early step on the road to holiness.  The first stage of the daily examen was to thank God for all that He had done that day, perhaps even reaching back and thanking God for all those times he directed and prodded me, provided for and protected me.  You don’t move forward in the examen until you’ve truly expressed your thanks to God for his unconditional and infinite love and providence.

Each November, before Thanksgiving, or whenever I lapse and believe that I am grateful enough, I re-read Radical Gratitude, by Mary Jo Leddy.  It’s a small book, easy to read and re-read often.  It reminds of the transformational gratitude that should always gild the temple in my heart.  It also reminds me that being happy will not lead to gratitude.  Gratitude makes me happy.

From the temple of a grateful heart, warmed by the appreciation of God’s infinite, unconditional and eternal love and providence, streams of love, streams of compassion, streams of generosity, peace and mercy flow out to the world.  And like streams flowing from the temple in Ezekiel’s vision, like the streams flowing from Jesus’ side on the cross, these streams bring life to the world.

Thanks be to God!

To Vote or Not To Vote

Famously, Jesus tells us to give to Caesar what is Caesar's, give to God what is God's. (Mt 22:15-21)  Many people have used that passage to justify separating church from state.  For most of my life, I certainly stood with those people.  I felt that this world was Caesar's, the next was God's.  How I lived my secular life was more or less unconnected to how I lived my spiritual life.  They were separate lives.

However, Jesus quickly corrects this interpretation (Mt 22:34-40).  For Jesus offers us a radical change in lifestyle.  Not so much in the laws that he cites.  The Shema, "you shall love the Lord, your God, with your whole heart, your whole soul, your whole mind" would have drawn no argument from most devout Jews.  As Deuteromomy states, it was drilled into their heads as children, they could easily agree that it held special place in the catalogue of laws.

Yet Jesus doesn't stop there.  He is asked for the single greatest commandment, yet he seems to give us two.  But listen more closely.  For Jesus says the "second is like the first."  They are as one.  We cannot love God without loving our neighbors as well.  And we cannot withhold love of neighbor without also withholding love of God.  Our secular lives, our relationships with each other on earth, are not unconnected at all to our spiritual lives, they are exact reflections of one another.

As we approach this election season, those of us of a certain age or with long political memories are reminded of Ronald Reagan's political home run in 1980.  Then, he asked "are you better off now than you were four years ago?"  As we also may remember, very few of us in 1980 could answer that question positively – and Reagan was swept to victory.  Even today, candidates are still using this line to highlight an incumbent’s failures.

Yet if we take the Jesus’ greatest law seriously, the question is not apt.  The real issue is: "are WE better off now than we were four years ago."  And the “WE” is not just our family, our parish, our town, our political party or even, for that matter, our country.  It is WE as the body of Christ, WE as fellow sons and daughters of God, WE as fellow human beings.

When we desire world peace yet continue to hoard the world’s largest supply of nuclear and chemical weapons, when we continue to be the world's largest merchant of war material and weapons of mass destruction - WE are not better off.

When we claim to be pro-life but stay silent on the daily assaults on God's precious gift of life - euthanasia, capital punishment, abortion, gun violence, poverty - WE are not better off.

When we vote to deny fellow humans access to education, basic health services and nutrition simply because they cannot document their legal existence in our country - WE are not better off.

And when we vote to cling tightly to God's gifts to preserve our own comfortable lives, while denying fellow sons and daughters of God the chance to afford decent housing for their families - WE are not better off.

In a democracy like the United States, voting is a vital part of our civic life.  But for followers of Jesus in the United States, voting is also a vital part of our spiritual life.  If we deny our neighbor in our vote, we deny our God in our hearts.  But if we affirm our neighbor with our votes, we affirm our love of God - and WE are certainly better off for that!

A Purgatory Parable

In the Gospels, we hear many parables about the kingdom of heaven, and throughout Scripture, we are presented with many images used to describe heaven and hell.  Yet, there is very little to be heard of Purgatory. 

I once heard a parable of Purgatory – I don’t remember where or from whom, and it is certainly not part of the Bible – but it gave me some insights into the mystery of Purgatory.  As best I recall, it goes like this…

The state of Purgatory is like a woman who decided to have a dinner party.  Not just any dinner party, but a very special, holiday party.  She brought out her Irish lace tablecloth, the wedding china, solid sterling silverware, crystal glassware, and her most exquisite linen napkins.  In the middle of the table sat a rather ordinary-looking cut glass bowl. While it was filled with orchids as the centerpiece, the bowl itself looked somewhat out of place among the luxurious trappings of the table. 

Yet as out of place it may have looked on the table, it held a special place in the woman’s heart.  It had been her great-grandmother’s bowl, and the woman had seen it prominently displayed and used at her grandmother’s house when she visited on holidays.  It was a fixture at every family gathering, and the woman was so pleased that it was now hers to use and to pass on to the next generation.

The dinner is a great success, with everyone enjoying the lively company and delicious food.  At the end, one of the guests, being a good friend of the hostess, stays behind to help clean up.  As she takes the centerpiece bowl into the kitchen so as to clear the table, it slips from her hands and crashes to the tile floor, shattering into countless pieces.

Knowing its great sentimental value, the guest is as shattered as the bowl, struck dumb with horror.  Before the words of apology can come of her mouth, the hostess runs over, embraces her and says, “Are you hurt?  Do not worry about the bowl, it was just an accident.  We can clean this up in no time.” 

Despite the gracious and genuine forgiveness offered by the hostess, the guest remains shattered.  She knew she could not undo what had been done; she could not replace the irreplaceable.  For some time, she avoids the hostess completely, for it pains her to be reminded of her mistakes; to be reminded of her powerlessness to right what she had done wrong.

We are all called by God to holiness, called to be one with Him who is all holy.  When we answer this call, we begin a journey towards God.  Down through the ages, spiritual masters have described this journey in many different ways.  While the images and process may differ from sage to sage, one common element is the need for purgation, the need to purge ourselves from our ego, our pride, our drive for self-reliance, so that we can accept the mercy of God.  Jesus himself often refers to this purgation when he says we must die to ourselves and be born again in Spirit and light.

But for most of us, this purgation takes a long, long time, and the journey is fraught with failure.  Even as we make some progress along the journey, we often stray from the path and when we find ourselves back to the path, we are often further back than we had been before.  The process is so long it doesn’t necessarily end when we physically die.  Surely at our deaths, we leave behind the toils and travails of an earthly life, but even though God offers us complete forgiveness of our sins, most of us – I dare say virtually all of us – probably won’t be ready to face God.  Our pride, our reluctance to accept that which we don’t deserve, keeps us from the ultimate peace and joy that is God’s gracious, undeserved, unconditional love.  We are like the guest in the parable who cannot face her friend as the friend’s face simply reminds her of her failings and her inadequacies.

Yet, when we have completely purged ourselves of pride and ego – and Jesus is confident that we will since he will ultimately draw all those who believe in him to himself (Jn 6:36-40) – we become clean of heart!  Blessed are the clean of heart, for they shall see God – and live! 

Today, we gather to commemorate and to pray for those who have left the womb of Mother Earth, but who are perhaps still on the journey to holiness, still purging the dross so as to be free to accept God in all his glory, grace, and goodness. 

But we do more than just pray for them.  We also ask them to pray for us, to pray with us, for we are in this journey together – we are a communion of saints.  I know that my dad and my father-in-law, both of whom prayed for my family and me mightily when they were here on earth, continue to pray for us as Mary and I continue to pray for them, that all of us may ultimately be free to be with God and with one another in eternal joy and eternal peace.

Is this fair?

My granddaughter, Ava – the most beautiful in the world – is 20 months old.  She is speaking more but has yet to learn the four-letter word that strikes terror into a young parent's heart.  That word is "fair."  The problem is that in a two-year-old's egotistical world, fairness is: "If it's not mine, it's not fair."  Ava may not know the word, but she knows the theory.  If you take something from her, she indignantly pulls the pacifier from her mouth and flings it to the ground, crumples onto the carpet and lays out spread-eagled as if she has been crucified!  Oh, the unfairness of it all!

As the toddler reaches preschool, we try to inject a sense of sharing with others into our child's concept of fairness.  I'll call this the "one for you, one for me" school of fairness.  Then our children grow older and start playing games.  With games, there are rules.  Being fair becomes “follow the rules.”  If you work hard and play fair, you’re a winner, whether the score is in your favor or not.

We take this “play hard, follow the rules” sense of fairness into our adult lives.  If you work hard, if you follow the rules, if you keep your nose to the grindstone, you will get rewarded.  And the rewards tend to be proportionate to the effort.  "An honest day's wage for an honest day's work," "You worked hard, you earned it."  And if you slack off and break the rules, you will get nothing, at best, punished at worst.  

We're quite proud of this civilized, “quid pro quo” approach to fairness.  We believe it is just – everyone gets their just desserts.  Even if it doesn’t work out that neatly all the time in real life, ultimately karma prevails.

It is a fairly small leap to carry this concept from the material realm – the world in which we live – to the spiritual realm – the kingdom of heaven of which we are.  If I work hard, if I say the right prayers, if I obey the commandments, go to Mass every Sunday, then I earn my heavenly reward.  In fact, we may even commingle the material and spiritual worlds together, assuming that our path to spiritual success is marked by our well-earned success and growing wealth here on earth.

We forget the Lord’s words to Isaiah – “As high as the heavens are above the earth, so high are my ways above your thoughts and my thoughts above your thoughts.” (Is 55:9)  Then we hear Jesus in this morning's Gospel.  (Mt 20:1-6)

Our valued sense of fairness isn’t at all important to Jesus.  He tells us bluntly, this is not what “the kingdom of heaven is like.”  Jesus does not want us to settle for human fairness in divvying up our finite goods.  He calls us to divine mercy and unlimited, infinite, super-generous divine love.  And each one of is promised precisely the same share of God’s love – infinite love for everyone!  No matter what we’ve done or failed to do.  We cannot earn more, for it is already infinite.  We cannot earn less, for it is unconditional; we can never lose it; for it is eternal.  We need only accept God’s generosity.  

In a sense, the kingdom of God’s concept of fairness is more like nursery school than like our grown-up, adult world.  We teach our three and four-year olds to share with others since they obviously haven't done anything to warrant all of the toys that they have.  The toys have simply been given to them.  Similarly, God's love is given to us.  It is pure gift, pure grace.  By definition, it cannot be earned or deserved, it can only be accepted.

We earn nothing, yet we have everything.  Having everything, we need nothing.  Needing nothing, we can share this superabundance of love with others.  We look at others not as competitors for the finite goods of this world, not as opponents whom we must overcome through hard work or bombs and bullets, but as other children of God – our brothers and sisters who are loved by God and cared for by God, precisely as we ourselves are loved and cared for by God.

We look on others not as an inconvenience, a drag on society, a scourge that needs purged, but as a gift from God, as one for whom the hope of eternal life shines as brightly as we pray that it shines in ourselves, as one whose right to life comes not from human laws or institutions, is not determined their good or evil works, but is from God's very hand.

And He calls each of us to care for these lives, to support these lives, and to cherish these lives as our very own.

For Christians, fairness is stewardship.

For Christians, fairness is preference for the poor.

For Christians, fairness is unconditional love.

Hail Holy Queen

From the earliest centuries of the Church, we have honored Mary as queen, recognizing her role as mother of our king, Jesus, who is son of Mary and Son of God.  Virtually all of the Church Fathers lauded Mary as queen, particularly after the fourth century councils that declared Mary as the Theotikos, Mother of God.  Some of our most ancient hymns venerate Mary in this role – “Hail, Holy Queen Enthroned Above” has always been one of my favorites.

In a sense, when we recognize Mary as queen, we are echoing the words of the angel Gabriel, the words of Elizabeth, and the words of Mary herself.  As we recall from Scripture, both Gabriel and Elizabeth declare Mary as “blessed among women.”  (Lk 1:28, 42)  Mary then prays that though she is merely God’s lowly servant, “…all generations will call me blessed.” (Lk 1:48)

But why is she so blessed?  Why is so right for us to honor her as our queen?  Is it because God somehow loves Mary more than he loves us?  Is there really some ranking in heaven where the great saints are somehow more “one with God” that those who perhaps just weren’t that great? 

But this would contradict our faith that God’s love is unconditional, infinite and universal.  God loves all creation – even fallible you and fallible me – with precisely the same love as God loves Mary.  Rankings and titles are things us finite, world-bound humans do.

Yet, it is still right to honor Mary as Queen.  For Mary is not only the mother of Jesus, the Mother of God.  She is also our perfect model of response to the love of God.  It is through Mary’s perfect obedience to God’s will that salvation was made available to us.  For Mary did not pray as I often do – may your will be changed – she prayed perfectly, as Jesus would teach us to do – may your will be done.   “Behold, I am the handmaid of the Lord.  May it be done to me according to your word.”  (Lk 1:38)

Mary prayed that God’s will be done despite the great personal danger it entailed for her.  She remained faithful to this prayer despite the great suffering and pain she endured listening to the people scorn her son, torture him, and crucify him.

But there is more.  As she if our model of perfect prayer, she also becomes a paragon of intercessors.  After all, if we wish someone to pray for us, what better person to ask than the one whose prayer is perfect? 

Mary, perfect pray-er, Mary, Queen of saints, Mary, Queen of heaven and earth, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death, Amen.

Hail, holy Queen enthroned above, O Maria.

Hail, Queen of mercy and of love, O Maria.

Triumph, all ye cherubim,

Sing with us, ye seraphim,

Heaven and earth resound the hymn:

Salve, salve, salve Regina!

It's not fair!

My granddaughter, Ava, is about 19 months old now and more and more intelligible words can be heard.  However she has yet to learn that four-letter word that strikes terror into a young parent's heart.  That word is "fair."  The problem is that in a two-year-old's egotistical world, fairness is "If it's not mine, it's not fair."

As the toddler reaches pre-school, we try to inject a sense of sharing with others into our child's concept of fairness.  I'll call this the "one for you, one for me" school of fairness.

Finally, as our child grows us, we try to instill a more sophisticated, quid-pro-quo sense of fairness.  We teach that if you work hard, if you follow the rules, if you keep your nose to the grindstone, you will get rewarded.  And the rewards tend to be proportionate to the effort.  "An honest day's wage for an honest day's work," "You worked hard, you earned it."  

We're quite proud of this civilized approach.  In fact, one might call this concept "the American way."  While far from perfect, America has long epitomized the "land of opportunity", the road to social mobility, better than perhaps any other culture in the history of the world.

It is a fairly small leap to carry this concept from the material realm to the spiritual realm.  If I work hard, if I say the right prayers, if I obey the commandments, I earn my heavenly reward.  In fact, we often comingle the material and spiritual worlds together, assuming that our path to spiritual success is marked by our well-earned success and growing wealth here on earth.

Then we hear Jesus in this morning's Gospel.  (Mt 20:1-16)

Our valued sense of fairness isn’t at all important to Jesus.  He tells us bluntly, this is not what “the kingdom of heaven is like.”  Jesus does not want us to settle for human fairness in divvying up our finite goods.  He calls us to divine mercy and unlimited, infinite, super-generous divine love.  And each one of is promised precisely the same share of God’s love – infinite love for everyone!  No matter what we’ve done or failed to do.  We cannot earn more; we cannot earn less; we need only accept God’s generosity.  It is pure gift.

In a sense, the kingdom of God’s concept of fairness is more like nursery school than like our grown-up, adult world.  We teach our three- and four-year-olds to share with others since they obviously haven't done anything to warrant all of the toys that they have.  The toys have simply been given to them.  Similarly, God's love is generously given to us. 

We earn nothing, yet we have everything.  Having everything, we need nothing.  Needing nothing, we can share this superabundance of love with others.  We look at others not as competitors for the finite goods of this world, not as opponents whom we must overcome through hard work, but as other children of God who are loved by God and cared for by God, precisely as we ourselves are loved and cared for by God.

We look on others not as an inconvenience, a drag on society, a scourge that needs purged, but as a gift from God, one for whom the hope of eternal life shines as brightly as we pray that it shines in ourselves, as one whose right to life comes not from human laws or institutions, but from God's very hand.

As Christians, fairness is stewardship.

As Christians, fairness is preference for the poor.

As Christians, fairness is unconditional love.

Growing down

When our children were very young, both of their sets of grandparents lived 400 miles away, in opposite directions.  Thus, Mary and I took many long car trips to visit the grandparents. 

Our strategy was to pack the care the night before, get up before dawn, try to put the kids in the car without waking them up, and hope that they’d sleep all the way there!  Of course, it never worked.  Most times, before we’ve barely left the street, you know what we heard from the back seat.  “Are we there yet?”  Who teaches them that?  We’d ignore them, but then it would only escalate, “Look, there’s a McDonald’s, can we get something to eat.  Oh, and are we there yet?”  And again.  And again.

In frustration, I’d turn around and tell them, “Grow up.”  It’s what we want our children to do, to grow up and be like us – learned, responsible, upstanding adults.

Today, we hear Jesus praising his Father for revealing the kingdom, not to the learned and the wise, but to the childlike.  (Mt 11: 25)   Mark reports Jesus telling us that unless we are like the children, the kingdom of heaven cannot be ours.  (Mk 10:15)  Here I am telling my children to grow up, to act like an adult, and Jesus is telling me to grow down, and be like the child.

What Jesus knows is that children have an amazing capacity for faith, for the understanding that there is great mystery in the world, and powerful forces that are much beyond their understanding.  The sun comes up in the morning and they see God at work.  A garden is in full bloom with all the colors of the rainbow and they see God at work.  A bedewed spider’s web sparkles in the sunlight, and they see God at work.  Simple things, yes, but to a child, they are visions of God.

And then they go to school.  They learn lots of things, just as we did.  Soon they learn so much, they think – as we often do – there are no mysteries, for they know it all.  And if we can’t explain it and understand it, then it can’t be true.

Then there is Jesus – a man who was born like us, who looked like us, ate like us, laughed when he saw something funny, cried when he saw something sad, bled when you cut him, and died when he was put on the cross – and one of the first things we teach them is this man is God.  They seem to grasp it quite easily.  But oftentimes, it is not so easy for us, educated as we may be, those of us who pride ourselves on our understanding of all things.  This just doesn’t make sense.  Perhaps we try to rationalize it all, make it more palatable to our sense of logic.

We forget that St. Augustine, who reminds us that if we know anything completely, understand it thoroughly, it cannot be God.  We cannot wrap our finite minds around the infinite God.  If we have allowed our pride in learning to lead us astray, we must grow down to accept the ineffable mystery of God.

And so Jesus tells us the we must grow down, be like a child, hold fast to the faith and a sense of mystery that when we see Jesus, we see God, when we know Jesus, we know God – certainly not all there is to know – but we know God.

Today, we celebrate the feast of Our Lady of Mount Carmel, a title given to the Blessed Mother in her role as the patron saint of the Carmelites.  The Carmelites are an ancient religious order who began as a group of hermits living on the slopes of Mount Carmel in the Holy Land.

 

A century or so ago, a young French girl became a Carmelite nun.  She was a true child at heart, and in her short life – she was only 24 years old when she died – and in her writings, she has inspired millions of people to retain the simplicity of a child’s faith.  Today, we pray with St. Therese of the Child Jesus, the Little Flower, that despite our great learning, we remain humble and childlike in our openness to the mystery of God; that we might follow his Son and enter the kingdom of heaven.

Yielding a gazillion-fold

In life, progress rarely happens in a straight, uninterrupted line.  Even when things seem to be going our way, we often make two steps forward only to find ourselves retracing one step back.  And when things aren’t going so well, we may even find ourselves making one step up only to fall two steps down.  On my really bad days, I am like the White Rabbit in Wonderland – the hurrier I go, the behinder I get.

Today’s readings offer us hope that such is not to be our ultimate fate.  Isaiah states that as certainly as the rains water the earth, God’s word will prevail. (Is 55:10-11)  Paul insists, that despite our creaturely limitations, despite the sufferings which we endure, salvation and glory beyond our wildest imaginings is the ultimate fate of the children of God. (Rom 8:18-23)  And Jesus takes our normal experience and turns it on its ear. (Mt 13:1-9)

For Jesus, even three steps back does not matter.  When we take one step forward living in the fertile ground of God’s word, of God’s way, that one step is worth thirty, sixty, or even one hundred steps.  To put this in the perspective of Jesus’ listeners, they would have known that typically, the yield for the well-planted seed would have been seven or eight times, perhaps ten times at the outside.  Jesus is promising a yield that is beyond imagination.  If Jesus related this story to us today, he might claim that the fertile ground yielded a gazillion-fold.

So where do we find this fertile ground, this agent of the gazillion-fold yield.  For Isaiah, it is in God’s word, in Paul, it is the revelation of God.  There are saying the same thing.  The fertile ground is Jesus, the Word of God, the perfect revelations of God.  When we walk with Jesus, our lives bear abundant fruit.

Yet, our culture insists that God or Jesus is not the answer.  I find myself depending on my own hard work, my financial success, scientific advances, and self-righteousness to build security, happiness, and the good life.

On the hard-packed path where I often find myself, I think that I can protect what I own by shutting myself off from those who I see as taking from me.  I pass laws and build walls to keep these people from coming into my life, from invading my space.  Yet in jealously protecting what I consider mine, my heart becomes as hard as the path I walk.  Blessed are the merciful, for they shall be shown mercy.

Among the thorns, I believe that in my anger, as righteous as I feel it to be, I can strike out at others in revenge for what they have done to me or mine.  Yet my vengeance becomes another’s motivation to strike me even harder.  As I sow the wind, I reap the whirlwind.  Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.

In rocky soil, I buy into the theory that creating bigger and better weapons will keep others from using weapons against us.  I think that we can make weapons “smart” enough that only those who we intend to kill are killed.  Yet wars persist; innocent people die.  Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of God.

This is the futility of our creatureliness; this is the hard-packed, rocky and thorny soil that yields nothing but more agony and pain.  There is another way and we do not have to look far back in history to see those who have shown us that way, whose lives have been lived not on the fast lane but in the fertile land.

Dorothy Day worked for most of her adult life in destitution, struggling to live a life of non-violence, love, and trust in the God who gives life.  As a result, many thousands are fed each day and many thousands find the only warm bed they know in the houses of hospitality which Dorothy Day founded or inspired.

Dr. Martin Luther King looked the evil of racism in the face and offered peaceful resistance, a vision of brotherhood, and his very life.  As a result, millions of minds have been changed, a nation was moved.

Bishop Desmond Tutu and Nelson Mandela fought apartheid not with terrorism but with God’s word, and today apartheid in South Africa is but a bad memory; today South Africa is a nation struggling to uncover the brutal truth of its past, to reconcile those who were once enemies.

Pope St. John Paul II, by letting God’s love and mercy show through him, helped to gain freedom for many, many millions who had lived under the oppression of Soviet rule.

Each one of us has the same power that enabled Dorothy Day, Dr. King, Bishop Tutu, Mr. Mandela and Pope St. John Paul to accomplish great things.  God will work through each one of us, but only if we allow Him to do so.  Trust in God, live in the fertile soil of Jesus, his Word, and we, too, shall yield thirty-fold, sixty-fold, one hundred-fold…perhaps even a gazillion-fold.

Summer Reading

I am confident that God – at least occasionally – speaks to me in a very direct way, just as he speaks to all of his creation.  More frequently, God also speaks to me through other people.  I may not always hear his words, and sometimes I may hear but not listen, but God speaks nonetheless.  God speaks that I may draw closer to him, for his desire for me, as is his desire for every person on earth, is to be one with him.

That’s the good news.  The bad news is that the devil also knows how to speak to me, both directly and through other people.  And his purposes are truly nefarious, for he wishes me to forget about God, to put absolute faith in my own ability, to limit my sight to what can be gained – and lost – in this world, filling my mind with wants which are always just out of reach and fears that seem ever so dire and imminent.

I am like the boy with an angel sitting on one shoulder and the devil on the other, but they are both invisible, so how do I discern whose words I am hearing?  Today’s readings give us a couple clues.

Jesus uses the metaphor of trees bearing fruits (Mt 7:15-20) – you can’t get good fruit from bad trees or bad fruit from good trees.  Therefore, listen to those people (or words) which bear good fruit.  By their fruit you shall know them.  This is logical advice.  We walk through an orchard in the winter and cannot tell what trees we are looking at, but walk through in the fall and the answer is obvious.

Jesus, St. Paul, and St. Peter all use this metaphor.  Jesus tells us that we bear good fruit when we remain connected to him, the life-giving vine (Jn 15:5).  Perhaps, most famously, St. Paul tells us that when we are led by the Spirit, we bear its fruits, principal among them love, joy, and peace.  (Gal 5:22)  So look for the good fruits, and we will be attuned to the good words.

Our first reading (2 Kgs 22:8-13) tells of “a book of the law” that was discovered in the temple during the reign of King Josiah.  On hearing the book read to him, the King realizes the wayward way of the people and institutes a great reform to bring the people back to Yahweh.  As a result, Josiah is rightly considered one of Judah’s greatest kings.  So what was this book that so inspired him?  Scholars agree that it was a version of the book we now call Deuteronomy.

This book is written as a series of discourses by Moses to the people as they are about to enter the Promised Land, describing for them the history of their reception of the law on Mt. Sinai – we hear again, as we heard in Exodus, the Ten Commandments.  But Moses goes on to fill in some of the blanks in the law, explaining the rationale and importance of following the law to the people.

What we learn from this is that if we are to discern God’s words from the devil’s, an important resource is the God’s words as we have them in the Holy Book.  We must be familiar with the Bible.  And it seems to me that the best way to become familiar with a book is to read it.

A few days ago, a friend of mine on Facebook posted a request for summer reading suggestions.  She received lots of suggestions and I learned of some of my favorite authors who have written new books.  But it also prompted me to think of Bible reading for the summer.

Now, the Bible is a bit much to handle for a summer, eh?  But, I’m thinking I – and you – can handle the Gospels this summer.  This would not require a marathon of reading.  Just reading two chapters a day – ten minutes at most of reading with another ten or fifteen minutes to reflect on the reading – it would take a week to do Mark, and about two weeks for each of the other three – Matthew, Luke and John.  That’s seven weeks!  Sounds like a summer to me.

And at the end of the summer, my guess is you might be at least a little bit better at discerning God’s words from those of the devil, for you will be much more intimate with the Jesus, who always bears the best of fruits. 

One

When you watch a college basketball or football game on TV, what happens when the camera scans the sideline or fans after a big play?  Almost invariably, someone on the winning side will point a finger to the sky and chant: We're number one!

Of course, we don't really believe that silly claim, as the other team's next big play shows it to be false.  Yet, we generally smile at the display, perhaps wishing it to be true if we are on that person's side, perhaps looking forward to a turnabout if we are opposed.

The bottom line, however, is that these claims of position and place are part of our everyday lives.

We rank ourselves against others based on the schools we attended, the jobs we have, the houses we live in or the money we make.

We rank ourselves against others based on our gender, the color of our skin, our age, the countries we are from.

And we may even rank ourselves against others based on the number of Masses we attend, the length of our prayers, the devotions we perform or the sins we don't commit.

What Paul told the Corinthians 1900-odd years ago, what he is telling us today, and what this solemn feast is all about, is that this need to rank and compare is fundamentally, diametrically, radically opposed to our faith.

For our faith tells us and the theologians explain to us that this sacrament of the Eucharist involves two "ontological changes."  Now, "ontological" is certainly a five-dollar word, one that theologians love to use, but it simply means "real."

The first "ontological" change is one we have known since our first instructions: the bread is changed to Christ's body and the wine changed to His blood.  But this change is truly based on faith, for we see no change to the elements, we taste no change, we smell no change, we simply believe.

The second "ontological" change we may not think about as much, yet it is much more demonstrable than the first.  For we believe that as we partake of the Eucharist, sharing the one loaf and the one cup, our community undergoes a change.  We become, as Paul says, one body.  (1 Cor 10:16-17)  When the eucharistic minister presents the host to us and states "The Body of Christ," our "Amen" asserts that not only has the bread been changed, but we - as a community - are also changed into the Body of Christ.

And with this faith, our community changes from one based on rank to one based on equality, from one based on competition to one based on mutuality, from one based on retribution to one based on reconciliation, from one based on power to one based on love.  We turn to the other, rather than the self.  We become one with each other, and thus one with God.

"We're number one!" - Not hardly.

"We're one!" - with the grace of God, most assuredly.

Be-ing

It is the early 80’s and I’m a few years out of school, unmarried, and starting out on a very lucrative career.  I live in Reston, Virginia, a new town founded in the 1960s.  We have a brand new Catholic parish and a friend suggests that we start a Knights of Columbus Council.  I’m thinking old guys in tuxedos and plumed hats, that’s not me, is it?  But Jerry convinces me and, since I’m a finance guy, I get to be the charter treasurer.  The financial secretary – who I have to work closely with as the treasurer – is one of the “old guys.”  Of course, that’s the way I saw it, but he was no more than 55 then, younger than I am today.  He didn’t have the tuxedo and plumed hat.  In fact, he seemed to me a very nice man, a good man.  His name is Paul Hickey.

I didn’t have the language then to describe why he seemed so nice, but as I got to know him better – who would have dreamed I’d become his son-in-law! – and as the Lord drew me closer to Scripture, I ultimately realized what Paul had and why I should want to be just like him.

For Paul, things weren’t important; people were.  Color television, who needs it?  Fancy car, what for?  Pay extra for peanut butter, are you crazy?  Frugal, Paul was.  But that only allowed him to be extremely generous – generous with his charity, generous with his time, generous with his talents.  He reminded me of some of the homeless I know from the shelter I volunteer at.  They have next-to-nothing, but are always eager to share what they have.  Blessed are the poor in spirit, theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

Perhaps it was his Irish heritage, but Mary remembers many a wake that Paul would drag all the children to, much to their discomfort.  It’s important, he’d say, to mourn with your friends, to help celebrate the lives of those we know who have passed.  Blessed are those who mourn, they shall be comforted.

A striking feature of Paul was his gentleness.  I rarely saw him angry.  My brother, who only knew Paul from a few family gatherings, when he heard of Paul’s death, told me that he knew Paul as a gentle man.  Truly he was.  Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.

When Paul lived in White Plains, he was the go-to guy whenever the city or some developer wanted to erect some outrageous tower or otherwise disrupt their quiet, residential neighborhood.  Paul would do the research, attend the hearings, and, in his persuasive way, turn the plans around.  Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness sake, they shall be satisfied.

As all of us parents know, kids can test unconditional love to the very limit.  Somehow it seems they never do things just that way we’d want or expect.  Whether it was John taking six years to get through college – he had to graduate because he ran out of courses to take – or Mary wanting to be a teacher – “geez, you’ll never have two nickels to rub together” – or Tish gypsying around trying to find herself – will she ever settle down? – they all knew that Paul’s love would never flag.  Whatever or whenever, he would be there for them.  Blessed are the merciful, for they shall find mercy.

Paul was always devoted to the church and its teachings.  Before we had a church building in Reston, Pat and Paul would host daily Masses at their home.  They’d especially do this during college vacations, in part, so they could shame the kids into attending.  Mary remembers Paul standing at the bottom of the stairs, “I don’t know how you can lie in bed when you know the Mass will be celebrated in your very own living room!”  Of course, they couldn’t resist.  Pat and Paul raised three children who, to this day, are faith-filled people with faith-filled families.  Blessed are the clean of heart, for they shall see God.

His experience in the army during the Korean War, particularly during basic training, encouraged Paul to pray for peace, and he continued do that for the rest of his life.  He was a man of prayer and peace, particularly praying, as Zechariah did, that the dawn from on high would shine on his children, guiding their feet into the way of peace.  Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called children of God.

Life didn’t always go according to Paul’s plan.  Some may have wallowed in self-pity at such disappointments.  But Paul would simply roll up his sleeves and confront whatever problems beset him.  Whether it was cooking some typical dad-can’t-really-boil-water dinner for the kids when he had to do that, or spending a summer on a ladder burning the paint off a 50-year old house to repaint it, Paul got it done with nary a complaint.  Blessed those who are persecuted, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

Paul taught me with his life what his patron and namesake, Paul of Tarsus teaches me in Scripture - that the be-ing of life was so much more important than the doing of life.  To know who you are – a sinner saved by an all-loving, all-merciful, all-provident God who proves his love in that while we still sinned, Christ died for us – and to know this great love in your heart of hearts, frees you from all of your wants, frees you from all of your fears, frees you be what Jesus calls each one of us to be – poor in spirit, mournful for the world and its sufferings, meek, hungry for righteousness, merciful, clean of heart, a peacemaker who bears patiently with suffering and persecution.  And when that is your be-ing, the doing naturally flows. 

Blessed are you, Paul Patrick Hickey, the kingdom of heaven is yours.

A lesson from Barnabas

Unless you happen to be from Cyprus, where St. Barnabas was born and martyred, St. Barnabas is probably not among your top ten most influential saints or your ten favorite saints or maybe, he’s not even on your list of saints at all. 

The early church, though, thought highly of Barnabas and appreciated his role in the with great fondness.  He is called an apostle, yet he is never mentioned in the Gospels.  He is the first post-Pentecost convert whose name is given to us by Luke in the Acts of the Apostles.  This was a clue that he was to play a major role.  It was such a large role that if it wasn’t for his contribution, there is a very good chance that many, many of us would not even be Christians today.

To explain, we have to know a bit about St. Paul.  Unlike the story of Barnabas, most of us are pretty familiar with the outlines of Saul/Paul.  Starting out as a persecutor of the early Christians, Saul is struck down on the road to Damascus and experiences a great conversion.  He goes out into the desert to discern his mission, comes back to Damascus and, shocking most everyone, preaches Jesus as the messiah.  He goes to Jerusalem for a meet-and-greet with the apostles and then it’s off to convert the Gentiles, which he does with great success.  He is a prolific letter writer, and many of his writings are revered as sacred scripture – and that’s what they become! 

Many consider Paul the first Christian theologian.  As such, he argued that faith in Jesus is the only determinant of our salvation, making adherence to the Jewish law unnecessary.  This opened us Christianity to the 99% of the world that wasn’t Jewish!  Without Paul, it is easy to argue that there would be many, many fewer Christians in the world and we wouldn’t be among their number.  But none of this happens without Barnabas.

After Saul visits the disciples in Jerusalem – where he is introduced to the disciples by our friend Barnabas – he doesn’t immediately go off to fame and glory.  In fact, he disappears!  We hear nothing of him for roughly ten years.  They are like Jesus’ “hidden years,” for there is no mention of Saul or Paul or whatever he might be doing.  Presumably, he simply goes back to his home town of Tarsus, making tents – the family trade – for that that is where we next hear of him.

Meanwhile, the church is growing rapidly, particularly in Antioch.  The apostles in Jerusalem decide to send Barnabas to minister to and oversee the Christians there.  After Barnabas arrives, as we hear today in Acts, the church continues to grow rapidly, and Barnabas seeks help for his mission.  What does he do?  He goes off to Tarsus and encourages his old acquaintance Saul to join him.  After working a year or so together in Antioch, the church there is thriving and the leaders are inspired by the Spirit to send Barnabas and Saul out on mission to the Gentiles.  (Acts 11:19-26; 13:1-3)  The rest, as they say, is history.

But if Barnabas doesn’t decide to get Saul out of Tarsus, it may not have happened at all.  His small act had great consequences.

This reminds us that even our own smallest acts of charity, of mercy, and of love, or our simplest words of encouragement can have larger implications than we can possibly imagine.  Often times, I find myself reluctant to act since I think I have so little to offer.  I think I can’t possibly make a difference.  St. Barnabas encourages me, as he encourages you, to act anyways.  Let God multiply your works as only He can.

And if we are encouraged by the example and prayers of St. Barnabas, that is a particularly apt and auspicious thing!  When he first joined the disciples, his name was Joseph.  They changed his name to Barnabas, meaning “son of encouragement.”  (Acts 4:36)  They must have known something, even then.

St. Barnabas, son of encouragement, pray for us.

Restoration

A principal theme of John’s gospel is that Jesus restores the original justice that God intended for his creation.  John alerts us to this theme in his opening line – “In the beginning was the Word,” reminding us of the very start of everything – “In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth.” (Gn 1:1)

Throughout the Gospel, Jesus restores faith to the unbelieving, sight to the blind, health to the sick, wholeness to the lame, even, in the case of Lazarus, restores life to the dead.  In today’s reading (Jn 20:19-23), near the end of the gospel, Jesus breathes on the disciples that they may receive the holy Spirit, reminding us again of Genesis and how God created man as he “breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and so man became a living being.” (cf Gn 2:7)

On this Pentecost day, we celebrate the coming of the Spirit to those first disciples, and we pray that the Spirit and his gifts help us continue Jesus’ mission of restoration.

Come, Holy Spirit; fill us with piety, that we may be drawn ever closer to the source of all love, the source of all peace, and the source of all joy.

Come Holy Spirit; fill us with wisdom that we might see the world as God sees it – an object of His love that we might also love as He loves us.

Come Holy Spirit; fill us with understanding that we might realize the particular mission you have for each one of us, the role we are to play in your divine plan.

Come Holy Spirit; fill us with knowledge of God’s commandments that we follow them in love and humility.

Come Holy Spirit; fill us with counsel that we may speak only your words and serve always with your love.

Come Holy Spirit; fill us with wonder and awe that we may see in your power and glory our shield and our protection that we might not fear anything of mere earthly origin.

Come Holy Spirit; fill us with fortitude that we might persevere in love despite those who persecute us as they persecuted our Lord and Savior.

Filled with the gifts of the Holy Spirit, we are at peace, the peace of Christ which he wishes on his disciples that first Easter night. 

Filled with the gifts of the Holy Spirit, we are freed from our wants and fears, released from ego and self-centeredness, and sent forth to love and to serve God and all others.

Filled with the gifts of the Holy Spirit, we work to restore the kingdom of God, that it be made more perfect here on earth, as it is in heaven. 

Amen, alleluia, alleluia, alleluia.

Our loving-parent-God

If you drew a ten-mile circle around this very church, my mom – with her sister, Mag and all their siblings – and my dad – with all his many siblings – were born and spent their entire childhoods inside that ten-mile circle.  Fr. Zywan always thinks that I once lived here, too, but I never did – it only seemed like I did.

You see, just before my mom and dad married, my dad moved away from Pittsburgh to work for IBM in New York.  In both their families, they were one of the few that moved away.  Hence, a Roos family ritual was to come to Pittsburgh every summer for a week or two, and then come back again to Pittsburgh every Thanksgiving.  And when we came back, we invariably stayed at 1534 Montgomery Road, the house Dan and Dee now live in, but then the manse of Uncle Ivan and Aunt Margie.  I’m not sure I remember the numbers of all the houses my family lived in, but I will always remember 1534 Montgomery Road, for it was a home away from home.

The Birsic kids – who ages conveniently lined up with us Roos kids – were more than cousins, they were like brothers and sisters.  And Uncle Ivan and Aunt Margie did not treat us as just any ordinary guests; we were kids like their very own.  The loved us just as they loved their own.  We especially knew we were family when we got a stern look from Uncle Ivan or were on the wrong end of Aunt Margie’s “crooked finger” – when they scolded or corrected us just as they scolded their own.  They were not just uncle and aunt, they were like another loving, caring mom and dad.  It truly was home away from home.

Many kids, for one reason or another, never have the experience of being loved by their parents.  We were blessed, in a way, to experience the intimacy of this parental love not only with mom and dad, but also with Aunt Margie and Uncle Ivan.

This intimacy is also an integral part of our faith and the reason we are gathered here today.  Let me explain.

The Jewish people were quite the odd ducks in their world.  While every Mediterranean culture believed in a vast collection of gods and goddesses, the Jews were steadfastly monotheistic – one God who was not only their God, but the only God for all people.  Every other culture saw their gods as abusing or otherwise taking advantage of mere humans.  They could only hope, at best, to encourage the gods to leave them alone by offering propitiating sacrifices.  In dramatic contrast, the Jews held that God desired to have an intimate relationship with them, to care for them, to protect them, and most of all, to give them the means to live freely and in community by entrusting them with his law.  No other people could even conceive of such a thing. 

During his life on earth, Jesus experienced an unusually intimate relationship with God – even for a Jewish man.  He almost never refers to God using the typical Hebrew words for God like Elohim (God) or El Shaddai (God Almighty) or Adonai (Lord).  His typical reference to God was the Aramaic word Abba, or Father.  But not just some distant and impersonal father, for he almost always refers to my Father, your Father, even famously, as he taught us to pray, our Father, for Jesus states that those who follow his father’s will are his true brothers and his true sisters.

Jesus understood that as God’s creation, every human being is, from the moment of conception, a child of God.  Yet, this relationship is not simply that which a creature has with its creator.  Rather, with faith in Jesus, we live this relationship as a loved child with a loving parent.  And because this parent is the infinite and eternal God, our relationship is with an all-loving, all-provident parent.

God has loved us into being.  God gains nothing by creating us – God needs nothing, including you and me – yet God created us not for anything He would gain, but simply that we might have life.  God loves us without any condition, for while we were still sinners, Christ died for us.  God, as we hear in today’s passage from John, loves us eternally, for Jesus has prepared a place for us in God’s house of many dwellings.

It is in this relationship with a loving-parent-God that we find hope today.  Not just hope for our beloved Mag, but hope for each and every one of us.  It is in this relationship with a loving-parent-God that we find joy even in this time of death, that we find peace even in this time of mourning, and that we find strength to love others as God loves us.

We gather together today to pray with the sure and certain hope that God will swiftly and lovingly welcome Mag to that place prepared for her from the beginning of time as she so often and so lovingly welcomed my family to join with hers at 1534 Montgomery Road.

A Prayer for Judas

In Dante’s Divine Comedy, the lowest ring of the lowest circle of Hell is reserved for betrayers.  It’s named after Judas. 

Why are we so offended by Judas' betrayal of Jesus? Why is treason at the top of our civil list of capital offenses?  Is it because treason and betrayal so offend our finely-tuned, “eye-for-eye, tooth-for-tooth” sense of reciprocal love and reciprocal justice?

On the other hand, Jesus does not take offense. At the point of betrayal, when Judas greets Jesus in the garden, Jesus calls him "friend" – “Friend, do what you have come to do.” (Mt 26:50)  Jesus came to announce, to live, and to die for the good news that God's love is not reciprocal; it is unconditional.  While we were still sinners, Christ died for us.  (Rom 5:8)

Today, on Spy Wednesday, join me as I pray for Judas, in fervent hope that that he ultimately realized the forgiveness that Christ offered even to those who nailed him to the cross.  It is same forgiveness he offers to each of us even as we continue to betray his unconditional love whenever we settle for mere human, reciprocal love and justice.